


Incepticons

by Syberina5



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:03:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberina5/pseuds/Syberina5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody was bad at math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incepticons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Choose Your Own Adventure](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739393) by [Tsarcasm (Syberina5)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syberina5/pseuds/Tsarcasm). 



> Disclaimer: SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE.  
> Author’s notes: Smut. Emotion smut, but still smut.
> 
> This work is slightly inspired/a reference to one of my other works; that is, in fact, where I got the title. It bears no real meaning in the story which... bears no real meaning either.

She sat up, fresh grief in her blood, her heart pounding, and her skin suddenly cooling under unexpected sweat.

“Hmm? Wh’sit?” came the mumble-groan beside her in bed.

“Fuck,” she spat trying to slow her heart and her mind down three or four speeds so she could think straight.

“Hey. Hey,” he said, pawing out at her, finding flesh and dragging her to him. “’M here.”

She relaxed into him, so easy to do no matter what had passed between them.

“Bad dream?”

_God, yes._ “Probably.” He was forming whole words. He’d be awake enough to remember in thirty seconds if he knew what was wrong, his spidey-sense for past-life regression tingling.

“Which?” He nuzzled her hair, the strands shifting against her scalp. Too late. He wasn’t going to let her out of this one.

“Weird one. Everybody was bad at math.”

“Terrifying.” His lips soft against her hair, a small, sleepy smile curving them.

“It was. I mean… high school reunions are scary enough; why have one early? Ugh,” she threw in a full body shiver.

“Horrendous. I’m surprised you can hardly speak of it.”

“There were up sides.” She kissed some close, dear part of him, starting to hit the sappy phase.

“Yeah? Win Best Combat Boots?” There was absolutely no guilt for punching him in the tender spot under his ribs. “Ow, jeeze, fuck. Veronica.”

“Don’t mess with the look. I was on point in high school.”

“As what, a Seattle version of Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”

“Ok, well, I know it’ll be sad for me, but now you have to die.” And she attacked.

***  
Rolling off, onto the mattress, she was out of breath, gasping and lethargic. “Woof,” she huffed weekly and chuckled. Next to her he was tittering, giddy on the high of good sex. She reached out weakly to smack him, “That’s how this started, _chico._ ”

“Hey!” His outrage was predictable. “Do I look like Weevil to you?”

“Do I?” 

“Hmm,” he pondered, rolling over, reaching out, palming her breast in a smooth, oft performed move. “Maybe.”

“Perv,” she said turning her head to smile at him, her energy returning.”

He gave her breast a goodbye squeeze as his hand traveled over her ribs, down to her hips, settling low on the thick of her thigh. He used the leverage to pull her leg over, shift her body weight to roll her against him, snuggling her into his side. His hand moved up her back, his forearm pushing her elbow, pushing her arm across his chest. The devil’s workshop nestled into the nape of her neck, rubbing with strong, deft fingers, lulling her into dozing.

“Hear that? Maybe you’re not a short, obnoxious Mexican. Maybe you’re a short, obnoxious bobcat. Because _that_ sounds like purring to me.”

She would have struck out at him, physically, verbally, sexually, but she was too drained, too content, too close to sleep. She’d make him pay for it—oh, would she ever make him pay for it—later, much later. She hovered on the edge of consciousness, not wanting to miss the massage, the man, the peace. 

It couldn’t last forever.

Soon she was out.

***  
The usual morning hubbub was the only reason he got away with it. She was doing six things at once, juggling coffee, mascara, a laptop, and the buttons on her blouse when he asked how their high school reunion had gone.

“Hottest fist-fight ever,” she mumbled and took another slug of coffee, trying to ignore the pain trying to tell her it was too hot—if she could get the coffee down another two inches she could have nearly another eight ounces before she had to hit the free way to hell (also known as LA). 

“Oh, who was I pummeling?”

“Wasn’t just you. Wallace, Dick, Piz. I think even Forny got in on the action. And then there was the [waggle eyebrows] wet.”

“You dreamed that Wallace, Dick, Forny, and _Piz?_...were having a wet t-shirt fist-fight.”

“No worries, handsome, you were there too. Smokin’!”

She was still waiting for the return quip as she poured more coffee into her travel mug and realized it had been two beats too long. “What?”

“Piz…?”

“It was high school, and a dream. I don’t fucking know.”

“Right. Okay.” He tapped the counter twice with an index finger and sauntered out of the room, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Fuck,” she was going to be late. “Logan. Seriously, this is not a big deal. It was a horrible dream. Remember?”

“The highlight of which was a wet Piz.”

“The highlight of which was getting to punch Madison Sinclair in her smug, augmented face. Yugh!” she punched both fists in the air for a Rocky inspired victory dance.

“Right, just tell me this isn’t the beginning of some nostalgia-driven reliving of our youth.”

“Sure. But, you know, I kind of have a soft spot for our youth.” She slipped herself into the hole between his arm and torso.

He huffed a laugh, untucked his hand, and held her properly, said hand rubbing on her upper arm as though to warm her while she walked her fingers up his abdomen.

“I mean sure there was mayhem and intrigue; sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll; an utter lack of law abiding citizens, _but_ ,” she bopped his nose with a finger he then captured and bit, “there was also some really phenomenal banter.” She scrunched her nose just to mess with him, “You know how you like quality banter.”

He kissed her with a laugh on his lips as she rose up to meet him.

“Great, now—” she swopped away, taking back up her circus act. “Going. Work. Traffic. Hell.”

“And in other word association games,” he called after her and she bolted towards the door, “Talk is to Later as Cheese is to Lasagna.”

“That was poorly crafted,” she shouted as she ducked into her car, ambrosial caffeine in her cup holder.

“Yes, I welcome your schooling.”

“Just don’t brood so much, Broody MacBrooderson, that you don’t get any work done.”

“Right, leave already.”

He waved as she pulled away down the street, handlessly blowing kisses.


End file.
